When the tree says hello with a gentle stretch of
leaf to cheek, yearning for some substance it shall
never feel, sensing scorn in your soft skin and the retreat,
then returns to elemental friend that whispers and consoles,
then you miss the touch of living thing gone green,
and walk across the oak floors of your favored space,
the home you found and saved from leveling,
gives up the grit to barren feet shuffling
where you dream of loves you’ve never had
in forested terrain you’ve never seen,
waters crystal chiming through the stone,
and then wake weeping, lost to morning light.
Possibly the only one Naomi got to do in her all-too-brief shift at the Fringe. I like the fact that people weren't afraid to do melancholy stuff like this, even with the distractions of people in bathrobes dancing to reggaeton. Sigh. We so sensitive.
What the hell did you get for custom words on this, Naomi? Looks like you had carte blanche.